


The Measured Lightness of Solitude

by Tyone



Series: The Ghosts We Make for Ourselves [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Infidelity, M/M, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 13:05:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7641478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyone/pseuds/Tyone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why does Sherlock think I’ll be moving back in here?”</p><p>“Ah yes, he’s put your chair back hasn’t he. Looks much better.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Measured Lightness of Solitude

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Wyważona lekkość samotności](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1361830) by [Tyone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyone/pseuds/Tyone). 



> A big thank you to the wonderful [Jordan](http://otmlinsons.tumblr.com/) who betaread this work.

* * *

 

“Why does Sherlock think I’ll be moving back in here?”

“Ah yes, he’s put your chair back hasn’t he. Looks much better.”

* 

The rain rings hollowly outside. Big raindrops fall down and trickle to the nearest ditches. John is packing quickly, not thinking about anything. The ability to gather the most necessary things into one bag has remained since his time in Afghanistan, but in this moment, he’s not thinking about it. He closes the lid of the suitcase, grips the handle and leaves, passing Mary without a word, not closing the door behind him.

He pulls the jacket’s hood up and goes to the bus stop. It’s quiet, dark and hollow – there isn’t a single person out as he walks. He waits at the bus stop for 23 minutes (it doesn’t matter) until one of the suburban buses arrives. John takes his suitcase and gets onto it, brushing his wet hair with a cold hand. He sits at the back of the bus, fixing his eyes on the window, not really looking at the passing view. Fields and houses sneak between one blink and another, and John finally relaxes his fists.

When he gets out at King’s Cross, it’s almost noon. He buys a sandwich in one of the fast food restaurants at the station and puts it into his bag, and then takes the lift down to the underground.

He arrives at Baker St. a couple of minutes before 1 p.m. Walking to the 221 building, he passes, it seems, the people he knows, but all of them are hidden behind huge hoods or umbrellas, and that’s why he doesn’t worry about the looks they give him. Sherlock’s voice ( _You’re a man who couldn’t stay in the suburbs for more than a month._ ) clashes in the back of his head as he passes by the known, indifferent faces. Hands are clasping the umbrellas’ holds; John pushes his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

He does not wonder if he should knock; he doesn’t knock. He takes out the key he never returned to Mrs. Hudson or Sherlock, opens the door to 221B Baker Street and walks inside. He closes the door behind him and goes straight upstairs.

The flat’s door is open. Sherlock stands next to the window; he doesn’t move even though he must have heard John walk in. John places his suitcase down and only then does Sherlock turn around. Sherlock takes John’s damp coat and hangs it on the chair next to the heater to dry, and then stands in front of John. John looks right at him, but their eyes don’t really meet; they still linger around each other, when Sherlock speaks:

“I cleaned up your bedroom. Tea’s in the kitchen.”

Silence falls between them. For a moment John stands still, allowing Sherlock’s eyes to examine and measure him, and then he nods slightly. Sherlock turns around and reaches for his violin. John has a feeling they both know that no words are needed.

He leaves to the kitchen and drinks the entire cup of tea. Sherlock must’ve prepared it before he had appeared on the doorstep. How he’d known at what time he’d arrive – John has no idea.

He places the empty cup in the sink. He’ll have to come back here in a couple of minutes, having realised that Mary will no longer put it into the dishwasher for him; that once again, he will have to be the responsible one. For now, he walks twelve steps up.

The room looks exactly like it did the last time he was here. For a moment he has a surreal feeling, as if nothing has changed throughout all these years. As if he’d come back after a week abroad, after a long day at work, after a walk. The hard cold metal ring he wears on his finger quickly reminds him it is only a delusion. He closes his eyelids for a moment, taking a few deeper breaths, and then comes down to the kitchen, washes the cup and goes to the living room. Sherlock stands still facing the window, holding the forgotten violin in his hand.

 _What now?_ passes inevitably through his mind, but the question is quickly smashed by the cold tone of Sherlock’s words.

“We’re leaving.” His voice stifles the rain ringing loudly against the window.

John doesn’t hide his surprise.

“What, now?” Sherlock doesn’t answer. “Where?”

Sherlock turns around from the window and for a moment, his eyes meet John’s. He reaches for his scarf and tangles it around his neck.

“A case.”

“I’ve only just moved in!”

“Yes, John, I noticed. Get your coat, we don’t have a minute to lose.” John stands still. Sherlock meets his eyes. “Get your coat.”

Sherlock leaves, passing him without a word or a single glance.

John isn’t sure when he decides to follow him. Maybe it happens when the rain seems to fade out, or maybe it isn’t even his conscious decision. Maybe he follows Sherlock because _that’s who he is_ , that’s the established order which, maybe, he shouldn’t have disrupted.

The rain still pours down, covering Baker Street in a thin translucent curtain. Sherlock stands right next to the street, one arm stretched out, trying to catch a cab; in the other hand, John notices, he holds a half-smoked cigarette. John doesn’t speak, but gets a bit closer. Eventually, one of the black London cabs stops in front of 221B. Sherlock opens the door, letting John in first, takes the last puff and then puts out the cigarette and gets inside. He closes the door. The driver asks where to go and Sherlock hands him a small piece of paper with the address written down, and they go.

Suddenly, it seems completely quiet. Mute raindrops stream down the car’s windows, they pass people without a word. He can only hear Sherlock’s breath next to him, quiet and smooth; he listens to that rhythm, loses himself in it. Only the touch of a still damp hand on his shoulder gets him out of this trance. John gets out of the car and follows Sherlock. Before he enters the crime scene, he stops, closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths. He feels Sherlock is waiting for him, standing still and most probably watching him. He swallows, meets Sherlock’s gaze and nods, letting him know he’s ready.

*

“That was amazing,” John says, trying to catch his breath when they both climb up to 221B Baker Street. Sherlock leans his back against the wall and breathes heavily, tilting his head back and smiling broadly. John brushes his hair, still damp from the rain outside. There is perfect silence between them. The darkness of the night is only lit by the glow coming through the half-open door to the corridor. John shakes his head, smiling to himself. Sherlock falls down on the couch and John, not thinking about it, sits down next to him. Their knees brush lightly, but neither of them does anything about it. John stretches out his arm across the back of the sofa. It’s almost as if he was embracing Sherlock. “Just amazing,” he repeats, more quietly.

For a while – or a longer while, John isn’t sure – they both sit still, absorbed in their own thoughts. John feels the warmth of Sherlock’s body and it’s the only thing that reminds him of the other man’s presence; and maybe also his own regular breath, coinciding with his heartbeat.

John closes his eyes, sighs deeply and gets up.

“Good night,” he says, stopping the yawn escaping his mouth, and walks twelve steps up to his bedroom.

*

At night, Sherlock often reaches for the gun hidden in the closet’s drawer. In most cases, he doesn’t shoot it; he’s too tired of explaining to Mrs. Hudson why there are constantly more and more holes in the wall. Most often, he only tightens his fingers around the cold handle of the gun. Most often, he only checks if it would fit his hand.

*

They go on another case the next morning. John comes back to Baker Street with groceries to see Sherlock already fully dressed. Sherlock takes the shopping bags from him and puts them on the kitchen table, and then urges John to get ready. This time John doesn’t hesitate, even for one second.

They are trying to catch a murderer whom Sherlock tracked down based solely on his deductions. Sherlock runs first and John is right behind him, hearing only the sound of police sirens in the distance and the insane beat of his own heart. Another lit building passes before his eyes distorted; his gaze is focused on the tall figure in front of him, on the coat fluttering as he moves, on his windswept curls.

Finally, they back him into a dead end. The man shoots and Sherlock pulls John down; John’s gut instinct is faster and before the suspect manages to shoot again, John reaches for his gun and takes one precise shot. The gun falls out of the suspect’s hand as he writhes around in pain, covering the shot wound on his arm. John can only hear the police car halting sharply right next to him and Sherlock and the police officers run to the shot killer. John takes a deeper breath, closing his eyes, and when he opens them again, Sherlock is in front of him with his hand extended in his direction. John takes it without a word and Sherlock helps him get up, not letting go of his hand for a moment; or maybe it’s John who’s holding onto it desperately, squeezing his fingers around it, not letting Sherlock’s reassuring presence disappear — he doesn’t know.

“You’re okay?”

John raises his eyes and meets Sherlock’s. He doesn’t know for how long, but the time stops and hangs between them. He’s drowning in Sherlock’s gaze, in everything that has not yet been said out loud. He feels as if Sherlock’s hand covered his again, grasping it and making him follow. John opens his mouth but the words are stuck in his throat. He blinks a few times and the reality slips in between them again. He hears the sirens, the street’s roar, the buzz of policemen’s conversations mixed with intercom.

Sherlock looked away. John can’t remember when.

“Uhm,” he clears his throat. “Yeah. Yes, I think.”

Sherlock nods his head, still not meeting his eyes.

“Wait here,” he says quietly and approaches one of the officers. He talks to him shortly. Meanwhile, John tries to calm his abnormally rapid breath, fixing his eyes on the ground, only looking back up when he feels Sherlock’s soft grip on his shoulder. “Baker Street?”

“Baker Street,” he says and a soft smile appears on his lips, which Sherlock quickly mirrors on his face.

Sherlock catches a cab and John pays for the ride. Neither of them speaks the entire way back home.

* 

Sherlock knows when John stops wearing the wedding ring: it’s after he shot the murderer, after their second case since John moved back in at Baker Street.

He doesn’t say a word about it. He suspects John thinks he didn’t notice. Sherlock never corrects him from that mistake.

*

Days pass imperceptibly on natural domestic conversation and simple actions; soon they turn into weeks, and these into months – but John stops counting time.

Gregory appears at their flat often; maybe even every week. Mostly he just presents them the old cases, as if trying to get the most out of Sherlock’s temporal good mood. Sometimes Lestrade takes Sherlock back and tells him something shortly and intently; Sherlock never replies. At first John was surprised by Inspector’s behaviour because before there never were things that only regarded Sherlock and couldn’t regard him as well. Although he supposes many things have changed since his marriage.

*

During some sleepless nights, Sherlock loses the everlasting battle with himself. Not turning on a single light, even the one next to his bed, he walks out of his bedroom and silently climbs up the stairs. He stands at the doorstep of John’s bedroom – the door is always open – and just listens. He listens to John’s breath, his body rubbing against the sheets. He never stands there for longer than a few minutes – he’s too afraid one night his mere presence or a too sharp breath would wake John up and then Sherlock could no longer lie, because how could he possibly explain something like this?

After three months of living together his presence still doesn’t wake John from his sleep. Sherlock, when he thinks about it, snaps at the astonishing kindness of the stars.

* 

John calls Mike Stamford and they go out for a pint, and, of course, he comes back to Baker Street drunk. He takes off his coat, laughing to himself, and then falls down on his chair. Sherlock puts the violin into the case and, for a moment, only watches John.

The smile doesn’t vanish from John’s lips as he extends his arm in front of him. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, but otherwise doesn’t move from his spot.

“Come here, Sherlock,” John says, using his other hand to wipe his eyes.

“What for?”

John smiles lightly, and Sherlock has to hold back the shiver going down his body caused by this sound.

“Mike… told me.” Sherlock isn’t sure whether that’s just a beginning of the sentence or if Stamford really _exposed him_. His heart starts pounding in his chest faster than it should but he has no time to think about it. He clears his throat.

“You should go to sleep.”

He knows he’s risking _everything_. Slowly, he comes closer and gets down on his knees in front of John. John doesn’t react, but he seems to sit a bit straighter, as if he was waiting for this move. Sherlock lowers his head, swallowing hard as he takes John’s shoes off, and then straightens up to help John take off his surely damp coat. But before he does it – their eyes lock and Sherlock freezes.

John slowly moves his finger on his lower lip; Sherlock doesn’t even dare to shiver. He holds his breath and looks straight into John’s eyes. _End this right now_ goes dimly through his mind, but Sherlock’s not entirely aware of this thought.

He surrenders, he knows he surrenders.

“Are you…?” Sherlock lowers his gaze immediately. John’s eyes wander on his face. Sherlock isn’t sure if only alcohol is to blame.

“John, you’re—” He doesn’t finish. John’s soft lips touch his. John kisses him delicately, with no hurry, as if they had all the time in the world, and Sherlock’s eyelids fall involuntarily. John lightly sucks and nips at his lower lip and Sherlock opens his mouth wider, letting him in farther. Their tongues barely touch, only learning each other now, and then repentance strikes him like thunder and he draws away, still perched on his knees. John looks at him astounded. “—drunk,” he finishes the sentence with one out of two possibilities, because he just couldn’t bring himself to say _married_. John must have read the unsaid from his face because he nods and gets up, passing him without a word and leaving to his bedroom.  
Sherlock doesn’t bring himself up from his knees until he hears the bed creak under John’s weight.

*

In the morning, they don’t talk about it.

John makes himself coffee and brings Sherlock a cup of tea to the living room. Sherlock stands next to the window and composes another piece. They exchange a short glance, but John doesn’t ask what Sherlock is thinking about. Sherlock is almost grateful for his silence, although he suspects John wouldn’t believe him anyway if he’d told him he’s not thinking about anything.

* 

The next case is different. The next case is rape committed on the US ambassador’s daughter.

John sits next to the woman’s bed in the hospital room. Sherlock stands next to the exit door. His voice is strong and cold. He asks concrete, detailed questions, looking only at the woman, not caring about the looks John keeps shooting him, which he can feel from time to time on his skin.

“God, what will my husband do…” the woman sobs quietly.

“Your husband has nothing to do with this. You are the one who was raped,” Sherlock says dryly and even though the woman seems to pay no attention to him, John gets up and approaches him, standing so close to him that the space between them is filled only with the mix of their breaths.

“You’re done here,” John whispers sharply, and though Sherlock wants to protest, he follows John out to the corridor. “Jesus, Sherlock,” he says after Sherlock closed the door. “Sometimes I wonder if you don’t just do it on purpose.”

Sherlock steps back, looking away.

“It was the most efficient method.”

“Method!” John repeats, louder. Sherlock wants to step farther away, but his back hits the wall. “Not everything is based on your goddamn methods! Especially when you’re working with actual people, you know!”

“What do people have to do with this?”

John meets his eyes and Sherlock notices something in John is breaking.

“Ah, yes, right. I forgot that all that _the brilliant Sherlock Holmes_ —”

“Don’t say that, John—” Sherlock says quietly, but John doesn’t let himself be interrupted.

“—cares about is himself!” he continues louder and louder, stepping closer to Sherlock.

“John—”

“Since he doesn’t feel _anything_ , why would anyone else?! Brilliant!” he finishes and once again they’re so close their faces almost touch.

All the words are stuck in Sherlock’s throat. He just watches John breathe heavily, not allowing himself to look away, not allowing himself to surrender this time. John’s eyes skim his face and Sherlock raises his hand, putting it on his chest, right below his heart — in the place where he still bears the bullet-shaped scar. John lowers his gaze and Sherlock can pinpoint the exact moment when John’s face softens that he realises what exactly Sherlock is doing. His eyes meet Sherlock’s once again, that never left his, and John opens his mouth but this time Sherlock doesn’t even let him begin.

“Let me come through, John,” he says quietly so that John can’t hear his voice is weak and unsteady.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to—”

“Let me through,” he repeats, only a bit stronger.

John steps away and Sherlock leaves, pushing his hands into the coat’s pockets and not looking back.

*

Sherlock comes back home at three in the morning. His steps are quiet and steady — he must have found and, most probably, also taken care of the rapist’s arrest. John gets up from his chair the moment Sherlock stops at the doorstep.

At first, they both stand still. The night’s silence is disturbed only by their balanced breaths. John takes the first slow step towards Sherlock. Sherlock doesn’t move, only watches him. When John stops right in front of him, Sherlock lowers his head. John’s heartbeat increases rapidly, his heart is beating so strong that John quickly realises what he’s doing right now must be right. He raises his hand and caresses Sherlock’s cold cheek with his fingers. Sherlock sighs lightly at the touch of the warm hand, tightening his lips. John does not stop touching his face in the most delicate caress until Sherlock raises his gaze and crashes the last barrier in him. John lowers his hand, grasping Sherlock’s coattails, taking it off him and hanging it on the hanger behind them. Sherlock doesn’t move; for a moment John only studies him, examines his body, his half-closed eyelids, his slightly parted lips, or his chest moving as he breathes out. Finally, he cups Sherlock’s face in his hands, sliding them down his jaw, his neck and farther down his chest. John is slow and careful, examining the texture of his skin, brushing it against the fabric of his shirt.

His lips wander up Sherlock’s neck, putting the first delicate kiss on it. Sherlock sucks in air rapidly when John’s lips mark his skin with other kisses, moving up, kissing his jaw, and at last finding his lips. John stops for a moment and only catches Sherlock’s lower lip between his lips, and then takes one step away, waiting for Sherlock to open his eyes, so John can see consent in them. Sherlock opens his eyes and for a moment John forgets how to breathe because he sees _everything_ in Sherlock’s gaze, he sees the years of yearning and want, and regret, and the unspoken suffering, and John has never, in any life, any version of reality, expected he’d ever see Sherlock so open and so completely vulnerable.

He stands on his tiptoes and their mouths touch once again, at first slowly and tentatively, only learning one another, but when Sherlock clenches his hands on his jumper, pulling him closer, John tangles his fingers in his curly hair and kisses him harder. Sherlock parts his lips, letting John’s tongue inside, farther and farther in. Their tongues finally meet, tantalising each other, and John deepens the kiss.

They break away only for short breaths, and their lips immediately try to find each other again, to merge into what seems to be a perfect whole.

John loses his breath when it’s Sherlock’s turn to examine his body with his lips. His eyes close automatically when Sherlock goes down to his jaw and neck; he doesn’t stop and soon falls down to his knees in front of him, embracing him, pressing his face to the soft fabric of John’s jumper, just breathing in his scent. John softly runs his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, waiting for Sherlock’s heart to calm down.

John takes Sherlock’s hands into his and helps him stand up. Their lips are again next each other, but this time John teases him first with a warm breath right next to Sherlock’s parted lips, this time he touches their lips lightly only to draw away a second later, to make Sherlock look for him, finally letting Sherlock’s deeper. Not stopping the kiss, John slides his hands down Sherlock’s chest and undoes the first button of his black shirt. Sherlock finishes the kiss but doesn’t move away; despite that John raises his gaze in an unspoken question. Sherlock meets his eyes and nods once to confirm whatever John is asking, observing as John undoes another button. Sherlock straightens his shoulders, allowing the shirt to fall down off his arms to the ground. For a moment John is unable to move and only examines Sherlock’s pale body with his eyes, and Sherlock doesn’t do anything either to break this moment. John raises his hand, breathing shallowly through his mouth, and moves his finger down the long line of his collarbone, encircles his left nipple and stops by the roundly shaped scar, a bit paler than the rest of his skin. Sherlock takes a sharp breath as John’s finger moves around it slowly. John doesn’t touch it; instead he raises his head, kissing Sherlock’s lips again shortly, and then places a delicate kiss on the scar, feeling how Sherlock shivers under his touch. John kisses him again, kisses him until Sherlock stops shivering. Only then does he take Sherlock’s hands in his and leads him to Sherlock’s bedroom.

John pushes Sherlock lightly, making him sit on the bed. He takes advantage of the sudden height difference and entangles his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, brushing it with his hand slowly, and Sherlock closes his eyes and surrenders to his caress. John takes his face in both hands and Sherlock opens his eyes, feeling John’s gaze all over himself. One of his hands moves to Sherlock’s lips; John circles his lips with his thumb, never looking away from Sherlock’s eyes.

Eventually, he kneels down and takes Sherlock’s trousers and pants down in one move, and then their lips meet again in a long, passionate kiss. Sherlock ends it roughly and darts away, breathing heavily, listening to John’s rapid breath.

“You’re married,” he forces himself to say it, to take the burden off this moment; his voice is barely audible even in the absolute silence of the night.

If John heard him, he doesn’t let it show. He takes off his trousers and gets on the bed in just his pants.

Sherlock doesn’t move. He sits on the edge of the bed completely naked, embracing his knees with his arms. He feels John moving closer, feels the heat of his body, and then arms embracing him from behind and a delicate kiss on the nape of his neck. He takes a deeper breath and turns around, meeting John’s lips. John moves back, not daring to stop the kiss, and slowly rolls onto his back so that Sherlock is on top of him. Sherlock places a few short kisses on his lips and then draws back a little. John runs his hand down his face, strokes his hair, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s. When he puts the hand down, Sherlock lies down next to him, snuggling him. John hugs him with his arm, pulling him a bit closer. Sherlock closes his eyes as John’s thumb caresses his skin.

Soon, he lets himself go.

* 

Sherlock wakes up in the morning in an empty bed and knows something has been decided.

He remembers how a few weeks after he “came back to life”, when John was still not talking to him and he was spending the days lying motionlessly on the sofa, Mycroft asked him how _much_ lonely he had to be. Back then Sherlock didn’t reply, and he also didn’t show he was wondering about the answer to that question. How was he supposed to measure loneliness? Was it even possible? He only knew it was possible to feel more or less lonely, he’d checked. It means there was some sort of measure which would allow him to test the degree or intensity of the factor someone once called loneliness.

He hasn’t found the answer till this day. He hasn’t found the answer till the moment he wakes up in a bed that still carries the scent of John, alone. It turns out his loneliness is unbearably light; measured by the absence of John’s body’s weight he should be feeling on his chest. He realises his loneliness is measured by emptiness.

He takes a quick shower, trying to stabilise his breath before he comes out to confront John’s decision.

The living room is empty. He can smell coffee and toast from the kitchen.

John sits by the table holding a newspaper he immediately puts down the moment Sherlock enters the room. _He wasn’t reading it_ , his brain hints, but it’s oh so irrelevant. He leans his back on the kitchen counter, taking advantage of the height difference. Fooling himself with the seeming dominance.

“I think…” John begins. His voice croaks and he has to clear his throat before he’s able to say anything. “I think what I’d want to tell her. Mary. I was thinking about it and…” He cuts off.

Sherlock smiles. Questions run through his mind, questions he’ll never ask, although he suspects John will see through his mask and maybe, in his mind, give the answers he’ll never say out loud.

_When were you thinking about it, John? When you were kissing me? When you were caressing my body? When you were lying naked in my bed?_

“I’ll call her and invite her to the Christmas dinner at my parent’s. I think it’ll be for the best if you two talk on neutral grounds,” Sherlock says flatly, without a single pause, without any emotion.

John nods, tightening his lips, and for a brief moment meets Sherlock’s gaze.

“Thank you.”

Sherlock smiles blankly, knowing fine well John will see through that fake smile. He takes his cup of coffee and leaves the room.

* 

Before they leave, John goes down to say goodbye to Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock moves John’s red chair back into his bedroom. His thoughts are unbearably light; they’re empty.


End file.
